


Unexpected Developments

by CarrotsandDragons



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Anders/Hawke, they aren't together yet but they will be soon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9506777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrotsandDragons/pseuds/CarrotsandDragons
Summary: Amid an important investigation, Aveline needs Hawke to stay out of trouble and Anders reluctantly agrees to help her–for Hawke’s sake.Her troubles, however, aren’t as simple as her friends believe and they're soon embroiled in a curious mystery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AKA, That feel when you and the person you hate share a mutual friend who can’t stop doing shady things.
> 
> This takes place between Acts 1 and 2!

The Guardsmen had two problems: the body of the man lying dead in the corner of the alley, and the scrutiny of the Guard Captain–the first filtered into the second.

As for the man, whoever killed him broke his nose; it sat bloody, bruised, and twisted on his face. 

Ghastly purple bruises sat right below his eyes and welts lined the rest of what might have been a handsome face before the beating.

“Let it be someone else’s problem!” His partner shot from the mouth of the alley. “He won’t be going anywhere.”

Sickly gray fog settled like smoke against the cold stone streets and buildings of their city, but the shining metal plate of a Templar could not be ignored despite the low visibility.

Someone, inevitably, would find him, run to the Guard or a Templar and The Captain would not be happy.

“Second one this week.”The Guardsmen sighed, recalling the lazy report written by the guard who found the first of the bodies.

Someone had to tell The Captain something–And it may as well be him.

* * *

Once the Templars were called to move and identify brother-in-arms, The Guardsman wrote a thorough report that pinned the murder on a random, Lowtown gang.

As suspected, however, Guard-Captain Aveline wasn’t happy.

“That’ll be all, Guardsman.” She dismissed him with a flick of the wrist.

Outside, he could hear the others whispering. He imagined them crowding behind the door and sharing looks of sympathy. No one, if they could help it, submitted their daily reports so early. 

“What will you do, Captain?” He asked, confused by the haunted look that took her stony facade away.

She recognized departed’s name.

“Search for answers.”

A search that would lead to the estate of an old, and frankly quite troubling, friend.

* * *

  
Hawke’s attic, Aveline discovered some time ago, was the largest room her mansion offered, spanning near the estate’s entire floorplan.

The squatters, she assumed, transformed the space into a library of the magical, arcane, and smuggled Tevinter literature–the things any good Andrastian would burn or throw away. 

But Hawke preserved it all, keeping everything in place. 

She potted plants, however, and let them spread across the room without boundary and grow upon tables, hangers, hooks, and shelves in a bright, harmonious display–a stark contrast to her more recent moods. 

Hawke sat at the table in the center of the room with a solemn expression and deep, tired bags that dampened her umber skin’s glow. A book was laid before her, though she’d apparently given up on reading. Instead, she gazed across the room, looking out at the city through the attic’s dormer window. 

“Hawke,” Aveline greeted, “I see you’ve found that hobby we’ve discussed.” Contrary to her previous demeanor, Aveline spoke in a calm, friendly voice.

“Yes well–plants are far easier to deal with than people; I can replace them if they die and they won’t abandon you.” Hawke smiled through her words, biting back their bitter edge. She turned toward Aveline.

“Thinking about Bethany, I take it?”

“I’m always thinking about Bethany.”

The day she left for the Circle, (the same day Hawke, Varric, Fenris and Anders returned from their expedition of the Deep Roads,) Hawke confided in Aveline:

‘I’ve spent my whole life taking care of her,’ she confessed, her voice wavering, teetering back and forth like a ship at sea, ‘I fought so she wouldn’t have to, gave her everything I could, I-I’ve done everything to keep her from the Circle and now…I don’t know what to do. How do I-What do I do?’ Aveline didn’t have an answer–only leads: a job, a hobby…a cause she could believe in. Something to do to help soothe the grieving.

“Have you heard anything?”

“No. And I doubt I ever will.”

“Hawke-”

“You’re not here to help me wallow in misery, are you? I can do that fine alone, Aveline.” She looked down at the table, staring as though she found the polished wood interesting.

“No.” Aveline stood at the edge of the table as though moving any closer would cause Hawke to break. “I came to ask about this.” She waved the report before her, causing Hawke to look up again.

“It’s…a report, Aveline–written by a very bad speller,”

“The name, Hawke. You recognize it, don’t you?”

“Should I?”

“This isn’t the time for games. What do you know about this?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you, or whoever gave you the names of those Templars, do this? Did you have this man killed?”

“That does sound like something I’d do, doesn’t it?” Her voice was an awkward blend of dejection and whimsy, “But I’m hurt that you’d accuse me. Beatings aren’t really my style, you know that–they’re far too messy.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No Aveline,” Hawke sighed, “I did not have that person killed.”

“Continue.” The paper rustled as she folded her arms and searched Hawke’s expression for a tell that she was lying.

“And I didn’t beat him to death either.” 

“You truly expect me to believe it’s a coincidence both Templars we’ve found were involved in Bethany’s-”

“Abduction?” She cut her off, filling in the words bitterly. 

“Departure.” Aveline finished, prompting Hawke to scoff and rolled her eyes. 

How she acquired such information, Aveline didn’t know and Hawke had no interest in telling. All evidence pointed to Varric, however, who seemed to know just about everything happening in the city–but that didn’t matter, not yet.

What mattered was how adamant she’d been about extracting her vengeance then, and how she plotted their demise. It was only after Aveline reminded her of the promise she made to Bethany that Hawke backed down from her violent claims.

She wasn’t to do anything reckless.

“When you consider the brazen way they tend to rip apart families, I’m sure both those Templars made plenty of enemies–I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in one of the gangs had a mage for a father or a sister or something–it isn’t unlikely.”

Aveline narrowed her eyes, placing Hawke at the center of her dangerous gaze.

“That’s an oddly specific circumstance.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking these questions to the gangs down in Lowtown? You know, the ones who really did the killing?” Hawke smiled for the first time that day; it was a toothy, flagrant grin that didn’t make it to her eyes. Had it not been Hawke, that smile would have told Aveline all she needed to know about the case.

But she wanted to make things difficult.

“And besides, Aveline. The city really is better off without them. I’d like to think of these things as justice, for all the families they’ve torn apart and broken.”

The last thing Aveline needed was to play one of Hawke’s silly games–she wasn’t as charming as she’d like to believe–her words, however, gave Aveline another lead.  

 _Justice_ was her cue to look for answers elsewhere.

* * *

  
“You!”

Cracks of blue broke out across Anders’ skin in response to the harsh, angry tone of her voice. And as he turned to defend himself against the hostile intruder, his stone pestle fell and rolled across the floor.

Justice retreated back into the confines of their mind, however, when there was nothing in their line of sight to be afraid of.

It was only Aveline.

“Have you changed your mind about that salve? Or are you here to arrest me for something?”

“I might be.” She approached him at the table, glaring at she reached into her pack for the report she’d shown Hawke earlier. “What can you tell me about this?” She held the parchment before him, the top wrinkling beneath her tight, rigid grasp.

“It’s a report.” He sucked the air through his teeth, “clearly.”

“Read it, you ass.” He took the paper from her with a roll of his eyes and read the hurried, slanted script of a guard too frantic to check their spelling.

He recognized one of the names–it had been spoken in passing by one of his contacts in the gallows. They weren’t particularly cruel–but not particularly helpful either. 

“So a Templar is killed and I’m to take responsibility? Is it so surprising there are others who hate them in this city? Or are you so far gone you’ve taken to casting stones at the first apostate you see?”

“Shove it, Anders,” Aveline’s voice was sharp and firm, her underlying hatred of him clear as the sun on a summer day. “I spoke with Hawke–This is your damned influence isn’t it? Taking advantage of her to further your misplaced cause–is there anything you won’t stoop to?”

“Taking ad- you think Hawke did this? You think I asked her to?” He wasn’t sure what to address first: her adamant belief he held some sort of sway over Hawke’s actions, or the fact she referred to his cause, freedom for all mages, as ‘misplaced.’

“I believe she could have, with the right accomplice. ” She folded her arms across her chest and stood firmly on her beliefs. 

He scoffed.

“But you’ve no proof of anything.” Typical. “Then again, who needs facts when you’ve got the power to dictate the truth? Do you plan to arrest us together with your unfounded claims?” He’d fight her if he had to, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Hawke trusted Aveline, and though he didn’t fathom why, he trusted Hawke. 

She’d never allow Aveline to take him.

“I plan to put an end to this before she, or anyone else, winds up dead.”

“And if she’s innocent?”

“Then I owe her an apology.” 

“I’d pay good coin to see that.”

“I’m sure.” She took the report from his hands and looked it over again. “If you’re as innocent as you claim, then help me.”

“Help you protect Templars? Should I check your head for injury?”

“Must you always be such a tit?” Was ‘basic civility,’ not a lesson taught in the Circle?

“I’m told it’s a part of my charm.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes, “Just–talk to her.“  Aveline advised him, “she listens to you. What do you think happens if she’s caught? Or if anyone else turned their eyes to her? She may not be guilty, but this is where the evidence points. She needs to stay out of trouble and if she won’t listen to me, perhaps she’ll take advice from you.”

“Fine,” He agreed. “I’ll speak with her.” She was the first real friend he’s had since his time fighting alongside The Warden Commander and rest; Anders couldn’t see her rotting in some Templar dungeon or arrested for a crime she may not have even committed.

“That’s all I ask.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke recruits Isabela to help her tie a few ‘loose ends.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the last, this chapter sticks with one character-- our favorite pirate, Isabela.

Something was different; Isabela knew the moment Hawke entered the room.    
  
She hadn’t seen much of her since the expedition. Aveline delivered the bad news about Bethany and Hawke needed space to grieve.  
  
Merrill, Varric, Anders, and everyone else who’d seen her, spoke about Hawke anxiously. She’d been quiet, they said, distant, angry--though she wouldn’t admit it--and there was a sad, faraway look in her eye that made her seem small.  
  
But today, her presence resounded off the Hanged Man’s drafty walls, amassing the attention of every crook, con, bandit, low-life, mercenary and thief she passed by.  
  
Hawke--who made a name for herself working for Athenril in the criminal underground, survived the Deep Roads, and got rich--was back.  
  
And it would have been normal, Isabela thought, had she had something to come back for.  
  
“Isabela!”  Hawke greeted her with a wide, excited grin and ordered a drink, the Hanged Man's finest--though it really wasn't much.  
  
She seemed to be in good spirits today--or rather good enough--nodding and listening to her prattle on about the Rivani Merchant Council Ship she saw at the harbor that morning, (“I’d bet my ass the poor thing’s heading back to Dairsmuid to escort some Merchant Prince selling tea or something–what a waste,”) listening with varying degrees of interest, her eye’s a little wider than they needed to be.  
  
“You’re looking perky today. What's got you better? Have you found someone who’ll...curl your toes in Hightown?” Isabela leaned forward, her movements slow and languid as she slouched into a comfortable position in her seat, “Is it someone I know?”  
  
“No!” Hawke asserted, now stiff as well as upright in her chair, “I’m not--I’m not looking for a partner, Isabela!”  
  
“Who said anything about a partner?” A large, mischievous grin pulled at the tops of her sparsely freckled cheeks, “I’m talking about a good old-fashioned rub down. That’s what you need. I know a girl, and a fellow if you’d prefer-”  
  
“I do not.” She cut her off.  
  
Hawke spoke in a stern, affronted voice reminiscent of a Noble in a crooked wig; Between the smuggling, fighting, sarcasm, killing and mercenary work they’ve done together, Isabela nearly forgot that she’d been raised by a parent of righteous, noble birth--the type of Mother who’d encouraged the children to shy away from such ‘improper matters in polite company,’ use the right forks and never threaten the houseguests (unless it was necessary.)  
  
Her reaction reminded her of Bethany.

Though that was a topic Isabela couldn't breach.  
  
Even now, as she watched Hawke swirl and nurse her drink, she could see the toll of her grief; The days have not been kind.

 

She should probably say something. Everyone had said something, everyone but her. 

  
But it wasn't for a lack of trying.  
  
She did, on more than one occasion, try to find a way to tell Hawke she was sorry for what happened to her sister, but her efforts only got as far as the door.  
  
She considered climbing in through the window and shouting ‘surprise!’  but whatever ill-conceived speech she came up with could never compare to the real support Hawke already received.  
  
She couldn’t be that type of friend--but that didn’t seem to matter, not to Hawke; they picked right up where they left off: giggling over drinks at the Hanged Man as the drunkards sang and tried to play a broken lute.  
  
“Alright, alright, no need to twist your knickers. What’s really got you so excited?”  
  
“Aveline--” Hawke spoke as though she suddenly remembered what had been on her mind, “I saw her today and she reminded me of something I have to do.” Isabela rolled her eyes and took the last of her drink, desperately hoping she wouldn’t regret the end of the story.  
  
“What’s our ‘Captain’ got you doing for her now? Let me guess, disrupting more fine business practices?”  
  
“Not exactly. She told me I needed to find a way to take my mind off...well, you know.” she took a letter from the pocket of her leggings and slid it Isabela’s way.

 

 It didn’t say much, there wasn’t even a sender, but there was a list of names--of Templars who were responsible for taking Bethany away. 

  
She recognized one of them--Cullen--but the others were a mystery.  
  
“After she accused me of murder, I figured I’d do some investigating of my own.”  
  
“What’re the slashes for?” Those were recent additions--fat black lines unevenly smudged as though a left-handed person dragged their hand across the page as they made them. There were only so many left-handed people in the world and there was ink smudged against the knuckle of Hawke’s little finger.  
  
“Oh that mean’s they’re dead,” she shrugged. “The guards found them at the docks.”  
  
“Well, there are worse places to go.” Isabela peered into her empty cup, watching the last of the droplets race like rain against the window. “They could have been found in Hightown--now that would cause a stir.”  
  
“My thoughts exactly.” Hawke smiled at Isabela, her eyes growing larger and even more disquieting. “And as much as I appreciate it, I don’t know who sent me this--or why. But if they’re murdering people to get my attention, I should see what they want.”  
  
“It could be a trap.” Or any number of things. Hawke was a well-known woman with both friends and enemies--and this ‘friend’ could be either one with ease.  
  
“It could be. I asked Varric to investigate but the trail went cold, he’s been pouring all he has into searching for Bartrand.” She passed Isabela her unfinished drink. “But he was able to tell me one thing: one of these men, the dead one, was a patron at the  Blooming Rose. And if I’m lucky, my ‘friend’ might have paid them a visit as well.”  
  
“And if he has?” Isabela leaned forward with her elbows on the table, her interest piquing at the meat of the story.  
  
“I can tie up a few...loose ends.” Hawke had a way of masking her intent with words that were only slightly threatening and Isabela liked that type of honesty.   
  
“Will you help me?”  
  
“Well, “ She pretended to think, “you did promise to keep that last relic mishap to yourself, so...” She agreed.

* * *

  
They followed the infamous maze of twisting streets to the long turning stairs that lead to Hightown. By the time they reached their destination, her muscles were wound and taut from exertion. She cursed.  
  
“Damn.”  
  
Isabela never cared much for Hightown; The buildings there were different than anywhere else in Kirkwall: bigger, cleaner, more pristine--each clamoring for the attention of wealthy nobles and foreign merchants; and utterly lacking in character.  
  
Girls dressed in fine silk and patterned lace greeted them outside.  
  
It was the sweet smells and the lulling song of a Harp, however, that drew the crowds inside.  
  
  
“Ah, the blooming rose.” Isabela sighed, perking at the sight of half naked courtesans lounging on the couches and chairs. The air inside was sticky with the scent of sweat, sex, and contrasting perfumes, but no one seemed to care or even notice the overbearing menagerie. “Where people come...and then go.” Hawke chuckled at her innuendo.  
  
“Make yourself scarce,” she whispered as she approached the counter to Distract Madam Lusine who, judging by the look of recognition in her eye, was torn between the knowledge of Hawke’s rise to nobility (and the coin she undoubtedly had,) and sour thoughts of their last meeting.  
  
“Ah, Serah Hawke.” Lusine greeted, brushing her graying curls behind her back. “Lovely to see you again.”  
  
While her back was turned, Isabela leaped behind the counter with little more than a low thud to mark her presence and slid the hefty book into her arms.  
  
The dark skin of her thighs flushed red against the cold, grainy stone as she sat and skimmed the book for names, dates, payments and appointments.  
  
“Have you come to buy, or are you merely wasting time?” She could hear the conversation going south ( as Hawke’s charms could only take her so far.) Quickly, Isabela flipped the next two pages and finally the found the man listed in the letter.  
  
He’d been seeing a woman called ‘Sunny’--and quite frequently, it seemed.  
  
Isabela slid the book back in its place and popped to Hawke’s side in an instant, slipping her arm around her friend with a wink.  
  
“We're here to see Sunny,” Isabela purred, the woman’s name rolling off her tongue like a wave on the open sea.  
  
“Oh. Mistress Isabela. I wasn’t aware the two of you were...together.” Lusine threw the pair a sideways glance. “Either way, Sunny isn’t here--haven’t seen the girl in days.”  
  
“Where is she?” Hawke asked.  
  
“I don’t make a habit of telling a client's my worker's personal lives, for obvious reasons. So if you need to see Sunny, I suggest you come back another day.” She spoke with the hard conviction of a woman determined to take the final word. “Now I do have other customers, so will that be all?”  
  
“That’ll be all.” Isabela nodded, cutting in before Hawke could speak and pulled her toward the exit.  
  
“I can make her talk,” Hawke affirmed, glaring back at Lusine with narrowed eyes. “Everyone has a price.”  
  
“I know you can, Sweetness, but I like this place. We’ll find Sunny...somehow.” She knew for a fact that Lusine didn't respond well to bribery, and Hawke’s insistence would only get her banned.  
  
But as the two approached the door to leave, a young woman called out.  
  
“Wait!” She was tall, carved like the figurehead of a merchant ship, and smelt like a field of Lavender.  
  
“Hello,” Isabela greeted, her voice low and sultry.  
  
“I heard you asking about Sunny. Do you know her?”  
  
“We’re investigating something,” Hawke began, “--for the guard.”  
  
“You don’t look like guardsmen.”  
  
“That’s because we’re not. We do the real work.” Isabela boasted, turning toward Hawke who returned the look with a simple nod.  
  
“Really?” She seemed impressed, “But you do work for the guard? I've seen you with the Captain before.”  
  
“She's the reason we're here.” Hawke didn't lie, or at least not usually, but she did have a habit of stretching the truth to suit her fancies.  
  
Despite that, the Lavender Woman’s face brightened.  
  
“Good.”  
  
“So what’s this about Sunny? Do you know her?”  
  
“She’s my friend.” The Lavender Woman began, “I’ve been worried about her. Ever since she learned one of her clients was...murdered.” She whispered the word like a dirty phrase in the middle of the night.  
  
“The...Templar?” Hawke shifted her weight to the side.  
  
“That’s the one. She hasn’t been the same.”  
  
“Why?” Isabela cut in, “He’s just a client--or did she know him well?”  
  
“I don’t know about that--but...someone else came around asking questions about him. Someone they call ‘Dirty Fingers,’ and she gave him his name and then a few weeks later...he was dead. I told her not to blame herself, but she thinks it’s her fault.”  
  
“They call him ‘Dirty Fingers?’” Isabela stifled a tittering laugh.  
  
“And this man this…um, ’Dirty Fingers,’ do you know who he is? Where he might be?”  
  
“...If I tell you, will you try to find something that proves Sunny is innocent?” The Lavender Woman spoke quietly, taking a step forward as though to solidify their deal.  
  
“I’m sure we can make that arrangement.”  
  
“I hear he operates out of Lowtown, in the big foundry at night. Sunny’s client was found nearby.” And that’s where they found the other one too.  
  
They were on the right track.

* * *

  
Isabela took off to visit Fenris but agreed to meet Hawke in Lowtown that night, and when she did, she was greeted by a familiar sight.  
  
“Do you really need all that?” She asked, taking in the sight of Hawke in her shiny metal armor--just like old times.  
  
When they met, Hawke’s hair had been shorter, and straighter in a way that suggested the pulling of curls but little else about her changed; Isabela thought she'd be too busy, too wealthy, too different to get her hands dirty or join the thick of a fight.  
  
But despite her social standing, Hawke remained the same.  
  
“Only if Dirty Fingers wants to fight.” She spoke with easy amusement, carefree as though this was little more than a game and lead the way to the dock, her eyes trained forward, focused on her their target.  
  
The silhouette of the Lowtown Foundry stood high above the other buildings, it’s burnt, pungent, nauseating smell striking all who dared to wander nearby.  
  
No one but the desperate or workers ‘too good’ for the mines were bold enough to venture there. And if the smell wasn’t enough to deter curiosity, the rats surely were: large, feral creatures with sharp curling claws and yellow teeth--the worst kind, in Isabela’s seafaring opinion.  
  
She sighed and tilted her head back to gaze at the high stone tower of what used to be a mighty fortress in the Tevinter days.  
  
“So this is where your ‘secret admirer’ lives?” She squinted. “No worse than Darktown I suppose. At least there's a view of the sky.” The wind picked up, hoisting the waves and lavishing her cheeks with salt spray. She should have grabbed a warmer tunic.  
  
The Foundry was mostly empty and surprisingly clean. Four cheaply dressed henchmen staggered around inside, laughing and drinking.  
  
It wasn't until Hawke cleared her throat that they noticed them and hastily scrambled to take arms but Isabela was prepared.  Her daggers found her palms as easy as the bones in her fingers and she passed through the world like a ghost, the presence of her blades more felt than seen as she sunk back into the shadows and struck.

Her daggers found her palms as easy as the bones in her fingers and she passed through the world like a ghost. The presence of her blades was more felt than seen as she sunk back into the shadows and struck the Henchman down.  
  
Hawke had a more direct approach when dealing with hostile enemies--hack, slash, shield bash--but both proved to be sufficient.  
  
The henchmen fell to the ground, grunting and groaning in what could easily pass as an old Orlesian symphony.  
  
“Well, that was lovely.” Hawke flung the blood from her blade as she stepped around a writhing body. “I didn’t expect there to be guards.”  
“You did wish for a fight.”  
  
  
They followed a path that twisted between four large vats, leading to a propped open door. The room was small and smelt like rum and unwashed bodies.  
  
Four henchmen, each less sober than the last, fell over themselves to defend their station but to no avail.  Isabela merely shut the door in front of them.  
  
“Kill the intruders!” Someone yelled from the stairwell and more henchman appeared, some stumbling but other coherent as they fought.  
  
Victory came easy but Isabela was injured in the fight, grazed by a dagger on her arm and across the leg--but the other guy had it worse.  
  
Still, she hissed at the hot sting of pain and scowled at the blood flowing like streams across her skin. That wouldn't look pretty in the morning.  
  
“Catch,” Hawke tossed her a potion to drink, the last one in her pouch.  
  
“Save it. It’s just a few scratches--nothing a trip to Darktown can’t fix.” If she even needed that. She’d been in far worse duels with far fewer resources in the past, she'd survive.  
  
“I’m wearing armor,” Hawke gestured at herself and the heavy metal plates that covered her tall frame. “And you know there are more of them up there...somewhere.” She almost sighed at the thought of more drunken henchmen hiding in the dark but headed toward the stairs regardless, calling back to Isabela to follow or risk being left behind.  
  
Still, she hesitated. Gazing up at Hawke before looking at the potion she tossed her way.  
She sighed, exhaling a warm, tired breath that showed her exhaustion.  
  
She took a quick sip of the potion and dried her mouth against her glove before following, the pain from her injuries began to numb so she'd save the rest for something important.  
  
A few more henchman straggled behind and others pretended to be dead. Isabela picked the lock of the room they should have been guarding and a man stood in the center to greet them.  
  
He jumped but managed to steel himself quickly,  even as Hawke lined the tip of her sword to his neck.  
  
“You might want to consider hiring new help. That whole ‘kill the intruders’ thing didn’t exactly work out. I mean...we’re here,” she said in a sweet sounding voice, though the danger behind her lighthearted words was clear. “You’re ‘Dirty Fingers,’ I presume?” He didn’t look like a hardened criminal, though the best never did; he was paler than he should be, shaking, and his arms were just a bit too long for his body. “You seem unwell.”  
  
“What do you want?” He hissed.  
  
“Information.” She let out a humorless laugh. “That’s what you do right? You trade in information?”  
  
“I do many things--none of them for free.”  
  
“Clever man.” Isabela could appreciate that business model though Hawke didn't seem to agree.  
  
“I'm not paying you.” She said starkly.  
  
“Then I'm not talking!”  
  
“Oh, I think you’ll want to make an exception for us.”  
  
“And why is that?”  
  
“Because you seem like a smart man, and smart men usually understand what it means when someone holds a sword to their throat--or maybe I misjudged you,” Hawke spoke to him in the tone of a disappointed mother.  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time I made a mistake; sometimes I need to take off an ear, or a few fingers before they really get the message.”  
  
Isabela didn’t need to look to see the deceitful smile spread across Hawke’s face to know what she wanted to do.  
  
“You threatening me? You don’t got it in y-” He was caught off guard by an unexpected stabbing. Blood dribbled out from the front of his shirt in a perfectly cut line. Hawke’s actions were smooth and precise, like dealing hands in a card game or--considering Hawke was a somewhat clumsy dealer--carving a Wintersend Turkey.

Hawke’s actions were smooth and precise, like dealing hands in a card game or--considering Hawke was a somewhat clumsy dealer--carving a Wintersend Turkey.  
  
Dirty Fingers heaved and yelled and shouted, failing to bite back the pain.  
  
“Well, what do you know? It looks like I did have it in me! Though I’m more interested in seeing what you’ve got inside you.” Dirty Fingers looked up at Hawke as though he was seeing her for the first time. “Do you want to find out too?”  
  
“There's something not right with you.” He accused, his voice rough and angry as he crouched down to his knees.  
  
“And you're a rude, pathetic man determined to die for a secret that isn't really his to keep--but keep talking, I'm sure insulting me is the way to get out of this.”  
  
“To the void with you!”  
  
“Well that wasn't nice,” Isabela put in, and Hawke agreed.  
  
“Would you mind guarding the door while I talk to our friend? I’d hate to be interrupted.”  
  
“You get to have all the fun.” She crossed her arms but ultimately agreed, turning around to guard the door in case the henchmen sobered up or stopped playing dead.  
  
“Don’t worry, It’ll only take a moment.”  
Isabela shook her head, looking up in amusement at Hawke’s antics. That poor man.  
She heard him yelling, but preferred not to get in the way of Hawke’s interrogation.  
  
It wasn't until his blood ran down the cracks in the stone flooring that Hawke called her back inside.  
  
“He said he’ll talk to us!”  
  
When she returned, Dirty Fingers was laying on the ground on his side, reaching out his hand in a plead for mercy. Isabela couldn’t see his face, but she knew she didn't want to.  
  
“He really isn't well, but ‘Dirty Fingers’ finally has something to say. Isn’t that right?”  
  
“What do you want to know?” His words were a groan that slurred together, but it was easy to infer what it was he was saying.  
  
“You received information from a girl named 'Sunny.' A name. What did you do with it?”  
  
“Sold it.”  
  
“To?”  
  
A long silence drew between them, and Hawke glared down at the man bleeding out on the floor before aiming her sword and yelling. “To who!?”  
  
“Don’t know” Dirty Fingers confessed, heaving heavily as he breathed.  
  
“I don't like being trifled with.” Her voice lowered, darkening as she spoke. “I thought you'd learned that by now-- You sent someone to my home and I don't like that. So if you don't tell me who, I'll make it so you'll never speak again--Do you understand me?” Isabela’s eye’s widened in surprise at her tone, the one she only took when something vital was on the line.  
  
Something in the room had shifted, a subtle feeling Isabela learned while sailing the stormy seas: Fear, despair, and the abandonment of hope--the dreaded realization her crew, or in this case Dirty Fingers, felt when they knew they wouldn't survive until morning.  
  
“Don't know his name! But I know his face.”  
  
“What does he look like?”  
  
“He was tall, good-looking, reclusive...he had, uh,  the look of a mage. Ferelden ...I'd guess.”  
  
“ ‘The look of a mage?’ ”  
  
“The robes.” She seemed conflicted, as though she needed a moment to think. A tall, handsome, reclusive mage--she let the thought marinate.  
  
“....what color was his hair?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“His hair!” She grabbed him by the back of his shirt and flipped him to his back, exposing every bruise and cut for Isabela to see. “I won’t ask you again.” He bit his lip, tears ran down his narrow face and he might have even wet himself so the words came out rough and shaky.  
  
“It was dark!  Black as night. Eye’s too! He had a mark, like a, like a birthmark on his cheek!” Hawke took a moment to breathe, shutting her eyes and exhaling as she stood upright.  
  
“And what did he need it for? What's his plan?”  
  
“Don't know. Don't ask. Please.” He sputtered. Hawke glared at him once more.  
  
“I really don't think he knows.” Isabela folded her arms. Hawke had beaten every last piece of information from him and more. Dirty Fingers had no reason to lie.  
  
Hawke looked at Isabela, then back to the man laying on the ground and seemed to resign to something. ‘Alright,’ she thought she heard Hawke whisper as she looked down at her sword.  
  
“...well,”  she wiped the long blade clean with a handkerchief she kept in her potions pouch and dropped it on his face. “It was a pleasure doing business, Dirty Fingers. Let’s not cross paths again.”  
  
If he were lucky, he'd pick up whatever pride he had, drag himself to the docks and make his way to a city far from Kirkwall to make a living serving drinks at a tavern if he didn't bleed out his injuries before the end of the night--but Isabela doubted he’d be lucky.  
  
Dirty Fingers was a loose end, and Hawke liked those tied.

* * *

  
Outside was cold and dark, the stench of the Foundry still permeated through the air but the scent of the salt in the sea felt fresh and clean near the harbor.  
  
“So...where are we going now? How do we find our Elusive Mage?”  
  
“...Anders told me he’s been working with- well, that he knows a lot of mages here. It’s a stretch, but maybe he knows our mystery man.” She spoke in a low, pensive tone, her luminous brown skin glowing in the silver moonlight.  
  
Whatever happened to her back there, she seemed to be calm and over it already.  
  
“Hawke?” She should say something. What would Aveline say? Something... something… responsibility?  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I...nevermind. And then what?”  
  
“We find out what business he has with me.” And tie up those loose ends.  
  
As they walked, a man staggered toward them.  
  
Large, stauch and seemingly down on his luck, he turned into an alley and stayed there, his presence ignored by those around him.  
  
“Right. So, to Darktown then?”  
  
“To Darktown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows she doesn’t need to, but Hawke continues to pursue this ‘Illusive Mage.’ While seeking aid in Darktown, she begins to question her own motive and suddenly retrieves another lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one follows our favorite heroine, Hawke!

Her Father was a good man; He set himself up as an apothecary in every village, town, and city they lived in.

No one accused the man who brought good fortune to their doorstep of being a mage—but if they did ever grow suspicious, their lips remained sealed. They treasured their fortunes too greatly to sell him down the river.

He’d begin with smaller things: a bad back, an ailing brother, or a pregnant wife with aching feet—small favors in trade of little luxuries like honeyed bread or strawberries.

‘Friends,’ he used to say, ‘help life run smoothly.’

With time and the passing of seasons, the ailments would turn into ridiculous pleads.  

A young man would ask for a potion, hoping to find himself in the arms of Teffenia, a certain nobleman’s bright-eyed daughter. But Teffenia would have her eye on Jona, the younger sister of the man who ran the Inn but lacked the courage to communicate.

Her father would forewarn against it, but never failed to mention his passing knowledge of an ‘old Rivaini trade.’ Hawke, or Filia as she was better known back then, could never be sure if that were true, or if he’d simply hoped to be viewed more humbly.

Whatever the case he’d send the troubled party away,  asking they return the next day.

Like potions, these charms cost nothing to make.

It was magic—mostly. Small magic, he called it, persisting spells that didn’t bother with specific circumstance but attracted small fortunes anyway.

‘Nothing can be precise,’ He’d tell them, ‘but you will have what you need.’

So while the boy wouldn’t have Teffenia, he’d soon meet someone who’d return his fancy and Teffenia and Jona would come to share a timid kiss behind a crumbling barn and fall in love over the succeeding days.

Only once was he given trouble: the first time a curse made its way out their door.

 

Filia was six years old when a man, a seafaring Merchant from the time they lived near Denerim, the capital city, asked for a charm to keep his shipments from sinking down into the depths of the Amaranthine Ocean or Waking Sea. He had sugar to trade in exchange for the gift, her father agreed, and, as always, instructed the man to leave.

But he refused, hoping to be the first to stay and watch her Father work his secret spells.

Filia stood behind her father quietly, clinging to the wood of the doorframe, her weight shifting down to buckle at her knees; she never took well to the strangers who came and went and demanded her father’s energy.

‘It isn’t the type of work you can see. It’s something that must be felt.’ He explained, his voice an impossible mix of stern and friendly.

Eventually, the man left, disappointed and probably angry (though he had no right to be.) But because of him, her father was troubled, then pensive, but soon appeared to resign himself to something.

The next day the seafaring merchant returned and that was the last she’d seen of him.

A new merchant settled into their village not too long after the adults began whispering, citing the story of the ship that sunk into the waters of the Waking Sea. The crew survived but the captain went missing. Some wondered if he ever made it to the ship in the first place.  

Whatever the case, she couldn’t fault the man for wanting to stay. Her Father’s work was fascinating. And if she were good and minded her mother properly, he’d let her play the part of his assistant.

She’d bring him stones or feathers or a book from his trunk and, if she were lucky, help him gather plants outside.

She remembered trudging through the mud with her Father as he scoured the field for sprouts after a heavy rain.

‘Aha! Here we are!’ He’d grin, standing proudly as though he discovered a gold growing from the soil. She’d never forget the look on his face.

She could still see him in his favorite room, surrounded by books and clear colored vials. But most intriguing were the plants—they were the only constant factor in the things he made: Myrtle for beauty, and prettying the skin, Wintergreen for easing pain, yarrow for stress relief…

Those were the best days. Filia would kick her feet on a stool or chair and watch him, always excited to learn a little more about everything.

She liked to think she had a talent for herbalism and that, some day when her family stopped running, she and her father could buy a shop together—a big one—and get Carver to call to the people walking by, bringing in their business and money.

But that was a dream that died with him. She simply didn’t have the time.

Still, keeping his plants gave her comfort and made her happy in those tough times.

So why, she wondered,  couldn’t she have stayed happy?

Why, instead of tending to her plants, was Filia in the dark, subjecting herself to the awful stew of smells—mold, bridge and something akin to bread burning—that clung to the walls of Darktown and made her skin feel dirty? To tie a loose end? For the thrill of destroying something?

Was there something wrong with her? Was it so obvious even someone like Dirty Fingers could see it? She scowled at the very thought. Still, she replayed their encounter over again in her mind, looking on her actions and what he’d said.

There had to have been another way, but it was too late to change her mind.

And even if she could…well, he probably deserved it anyway.

* * *

 

Darktown, as always, managed to live up to its name; It was dark, the torches on the walls barely made a difference and a thick cloud of despair hung closely overhead, spreading like the leaves in a bad cup of tea.

Isabela hummed a song beside her, some manner of shanty Filia knew she’d heard her sing before, but she could hardly pay attention let alone remember the words (that and Isabela was hardly a songbird, she couldn’t be sure if she’d heard the lyrics correctly the first time anyway.)

In fact, she’d been so distracted by her thoughts, Filia hardly noticed the open door that marked their destination. So once they arrived, she hesitated for the briefest moment.

They’d gotten here too quickly—she didn’t feel at all prepared.

But as she scanned the room, looking across the tables, cots, and chairs, everything began to feel lighter.

Anders had been standing near the back of the clinic, exchanging whispers with a man she didn’t know but thought she might have seen somewhere before.

He was handsome enough, with a sort of pinched-in face that squeezed his features into a sour look of disgust. And he certainly looked reclusive, with dark curly hair and a heavy black cape set around his narrow shoulders—but he wasn’t tall; Anders had to look down to converse with him, and the thought put her sword arm at ease.

She didn’t need to kill him. There was no need to fight.

Instead, she smiled at Anders when he looked her way and watched his expression shift from surprise, then confusion, and finally joy, as though he’d found a warm pair of slippers or a handy set of swords in a place he didn’t quite expect them to be.

He spoke quietly with his friend for a moment longer, something about their conversation prompting him to glance her way. He looked she and Isabela over, an unreadable expression on his face, before pulling up his hood and walking away.

“Who was that?” Isabela asked, folding her arms as she watched the handsome stranger leave.

“A friend,” Anders told her, “Javier. He works for Lirene.”

“From the Ferelden Import Shop?” Confusion filled Filia’s voice as she filed through her memories.“The woman who said you had ‘nice eyes’?” She wasn’t sure why that particular detail stuck out in her mind or why she felt the need to bring it up, but it did her no favors to pretend she hadn’t said anything.

Isabela made a sound, a strange mixture of a snort, scoff, and giggle, as though she alone were privy to a special secret or something. Anders appeared to be out the loop as well.

“I’ve been meaning to come see you.” He confessed, taking a few strides closer till she could see the light reflecting in his eyes.

“And here I am! How lucky.”

“Did you have a run-in with one of the gangs?” He asked, shifting his attention from her to Isabela’s injuries. They were minor, but he sped the process of their healing with a simple wave.

“They were more like drunk fisherman really,” Isabela leaned back against the table where she found a towel to wipe the excess blood away. She tossed it somewhere and began picking through Anders’ things.

“Do I want to know?” He turned back to Filia, who, for all intents and purpose, agreed with Isabela’s assessment of their attacker’s failings.

“Probably not.” She shrugged. “We’re actually here to ask you something—but you can go first since you obviously missed me.” And she wasn’t exactly sure how to breach the topic of what she wanted to say. ‘I’m searching for someone I need to kill, would you happen to know where he is?’ Didn’t seem appropriate.

Anders seemed hesitant at first but resolved himself to speak, guiding her away from Isabela’s prying ears and eyes.

“…I spoke with Aveline about you.” He confessed as though he’d done something dirty. “How are you feeling?”

“Hmm?” She wished he hadn’t asked.

Her day spent hunting for the mysterious sender of that letter, or ‘Illusive Mage,’ as Isabela named them, was meant to distract her from thinking of her little sister wasting away in a prison and angsting over thoughts of her little-broken family.

Part of her was grateful for the unexpected developments that lead to this mystery. It meant she could avoid that question, (that how are feeling?) for a little longer.

“Oh, I’m fine.” She leaned away, pushing the tip of her boot into the stone.  “Peachy, really, when you consider my sister is trapped in an impenetrable prison thrusting up from the middle of the sea.”

“Hawke-”

“It’s alright Anders.” She stopped him. “That was a joke.” Mostly.

“…Bethany’s a special girl; She’ll do well for herself in The Circle.” He assured her anyway, his kind words pulling her attention back from the floor and to his eyes. They really were lovely. “I have a contact—a friend of Karl’s. I’ve asked her to look after Bethany.”

“You did?” She could feel her own eyes growing wide and the fast-paced beating of her heart and wondered what one said when a simple ‘Thank You’ would never suffice.

So she stood there, staring at his eyes, lips parted in silence. She had no words to say.

Grateful for his friendship and more than overjoyed, Filia may have cried then—wept even—had it not been for the angry voice that swept the mood away.

“Anders!” It hissed, speaking his name through gritted teeth. The familiarity of it striking her like a butcher chopping meat.

Aveline entered the clinic like a storm on the raging sea,  stopping only when she saw them all together, her brows furrowing down to make herself look mean.

“Well if it isn’t the ‘Captain of The Guard,’” Isabela smirked, her own brows rising to complement the wily grin that eased its way across her face. “What did I tell you, Hawke. She’s come to oppress more free enterprise.”

“The three of you together I see. I should have known that would be the case.” She set her helmet down upon the table, ignoring Isabela to the best of her ability.

“Is there something wrong, Aveline?” Filia asked. She seemed to be in such a bad mood lately.

“Very. My guardsmen found another body. This time near the foundries.”

“I don’t recall hearing anything about a body,” She thought back. “I just left from there.”

“Hawke-”

“But I didn’t kill anyone today.” Or so she didn’t think. Filia waved her hand dismissively. “And Isabela’s been with me.”

“Except for when I was with Fenris,” Isabela added thoughtfully. They turned their glance to Anders who answered with a simple “No.”

“Well, there we have it. We’re not guilty.”

“I believe you—Oh don’t look at me like that.” She scoffed at Filia’s wide-eyed look of disbelief.

“What happened to this man was…beyond any normal person’s capabilities.”

“Any normal person’s?” She tilted her head to the side, hoping Aveline would elaborate fully.

“We believe he was killed by magic.”  

“Of course. You think the killer is a mage so you come to me.” Anders folded his arms and looked away.

“I came to you because I now have a lead. There was a witness,” Aveline explained, “She told us she saw a drunken man enter the alley, she heard screaming and suddenly…there was a body. He looked badly beaten just like the others but she hadn’t seen anyone else come leave. We suspect something similar may have happened with the others.”

“That was her thrilling testimony?” Isabela spoke with disbelief. “It isn’t much.”

“I never said it was a good lead. But due to the nature of the attacks…We may have a blood mage on the loose”

“Another blood mage, you mean.” Isabela corrected.

Anders muttered something under his breath with a clear look of exasperation drawn across his face.

“Do you think this is our ‘Illusive Mage?’”

“It may be.” Filia sighed, shifting her weight from one leg to the next. She had doubts. Given her history, Blood Magic was likely to blame. But Blood Mages had a talent for making bodies disappear in the darkness of the night. Why would they leave the body behind if they could help it? Why be that sloppy?

Anyone with stealth or light footsteps could make a daring escape, but not everyone could make a body disappear.  Filia knew from experience that it could be quite grueling work, actually.

But what did that mean? Was Aveline’s killer and the person she wanted not one and the same?

“You’re what?” Aveline raised a brow but Isabela dismissed her worry.

“It’s a long story.”

“It doesn’t matter who it is, so long as they’re brought in to face justice.” Anders scoffed at her words.

“Do you know where they may be?”

“We have an idea. But I won’t ask my men to go in unprepared.”

“Isn’t that the point of the city guard?” Isabela chided, placing her hands on her hips for emphasis.

“I’d hoped to get more insight on what we might be up against.”

“Well, there’s no way of knowing until we get there.” Filia decided to speak. Helping Aveline was the right thing to do—and there was still a chance she’d find this ‘Illusive Mage’ or whoever they’d turn out to be.

“Whoever it is  may very well be more dangerous than we suspected, the guard will need help.”  Blood mage or not, she didn’t come this far to let him be arrested by the city guard or, and this was more likely, escape.

* * *

 

The killer’s hideout was a warehouse near the channel not too far from the Hanged Man. The owner had been forced to shut its doors when a careless worker poisoned the fish and cut the fishing lines. Fortunately, no one died but the mishap stole the owner’s credibility.

“Why does it seem like we’re always walking?” Isabela spoke with an exasperated sigh, folding her arms as they followed Aveline’s lead.

“I’ll pay a few handsome men to massage your feet,” Filia promised.

Though they moved forward with caution, there was no sign of any of Lowtown’s ever present gangs lurking around the streets.

It seemed this particular area was neutral territory and the peace suited Filia fine; She didn’t feel like cleaning her sword any more than she had to this evening.

It wasn’t as large as the Foundry by the harbor nor was it as imposing, but the unrelenting Lowtown fog curled around it, shifting its edges like a sinister dream.

Aveline looked back over her shoulder, hoping the section of Guards she made follow were still, in fact, following.

“Let’s move in, she instructed but the door didn’t seem to agree. “There shouldn’t be a lock here.”

“Looks like someone knows we’re coming.” Despite the drawback to their plan, Filia’s  lips curled up into the smuggest of grins. There were certain advantages of her name being whispered across the lower reaches of the city: no one but fools really bothered her and sometimes she’d get things for free. There was the occasional challenge, however,  but she wasn’t just known for being dangerous—she was.

And she wouldn’t let something as simple as a locked door stop her from reaching her target once and for all.

“Can you unlock it? Or should we try to break it down?” She turned to Isabela who met her smile with a sly beam of her own.

“I’m sure I can manage something.” Isabela kneeled down, but not before sliding a slender pouch of needles from the inside of her high leather boot.

She made quick work of the lock, (much to Aveline’s relief,) but the old hinges on the door made a loud, unpleasant screech as though to warn of intruders approaching.

Hawke and Aveline readied their shields, Isabela her daggers and Anders his stave, the four all ready for a frontal assault or clever attack by the enemy—but nothing came.

The inside was quiet, unbelievably empty, and heavy with the scent of soap and lye as though someone had gone through great pains to wash something unpleasant away.

They all turned their eye’s to Aveline.

“Is this really where your lead said he’d be?” Anders lowered his stave.

“Yes.” She confirmed, “We need to search every room. If he’s here, there’s no telling where he may be.”

“And when we find him?” Isabela wondered, putting away her knives.

“We do what we must. But I want him alive for questioning.”

Filia frowned but didn’t raise her protest vocally.

Aveline might have wanted him alive, but she herself felt differently.

* * *

 

They split the search.

The warehouse was far too large for the group to stay together but they managed to play to their strengths perfectly.

Filia noticed narrow walkway above, so Isabela, who seemed to have a history with walking those types of things, would take the upper level to see what she could find alongside Aveline. Despite their mock and teasing, they’d keep one another safe.

Aveline and Anders had no easier of a friendship  (in fact it was worse,) and it was clear Kirkwall’s Guardian had no clue how to fight beside a mage.

She was a soldier—trained by her father to see the battle, find patterns and disrupt enemy lines. She was trained to lead troops who fought with honor and instinct, not men who’d set the room ablaze to make an escape.

Anders was powerful, but he had no combat training—no real combat training besides what he learned fighting alongside his Warden Commander in Amaranthine.

His attacks were wide and flashy, better suited for slowing pursuits than facing down an enemy. He wanted to survive more than fight—his skills were better suited to aid Filia who could adapt to change more easily.

So together they searched the ground floor—though the task didn’t make itself easy.

The warehouse seemed to stretch on and on, it’s bland design and empty rooms all melting together in a seamless gray streak.

“I wonder if  they’re faring better than we are.” He whispered.

“Well, I haven’t heard any fighting yet.” The warehouse seemed to be completely empty, yet she felt as though someone was there, watching.

‘It’s nothing,’ she told herself, ‘just a cruel trick of the mind,’ but it didn’t ease her in any way. There was something, something in the darkness, something as silent as a shadow on the wall.

She didn’t like this feeling. So she filled the space with quiet banter as she and Anders moved forward toward the next room.

“I didn’t get the chance to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“For Bethany. Aveline interrupted me before so, um, Thank You.” She smiled awkwardly, knowing it could never be enough but needing to say it anyway.

She felt as though there was rope in her stomach, twisting itself into knots and braids.

She’d never felt this strange talking to him before. It was almost as though she were feeling butterflies.

“It’s the least I could do.” He smiled and her eyes darted away.

“I’m glad Bethany has someone to look after her.” Because she couldn’t. Not anymore. 

They reached the next door.

Unlike the others, it had been locked from the inside. It took a great show of magic from Anders to force it from the hinges. But once it opened, Filia took a step back from the scene.

The room smelt as sterile as the others but was hardly bare. Its long tables were full of plants and flasks with metal apparatuses between them.  One wall was devoted to supporting a towering pile of books and the other a small cot similar to the ones in Anders’ clinic.

It might have been a perfect workshop, had it not been for the body lying still in the center of the floor.

“Maker,” she squatted, eyes rolling over the shards of glass that were shattered around him on the floor. They glittered beneath the light cast by the moon and were dotted red with blood. Even so, the man wasn’t bleeding (or at least not anymore) but he was scared.

One, in particular, was jarring: it extended from someplace beneath his blood-stained tunic and across the left side of his cheek, reaching out to his eye like the branches of a wayward tree. It spread beneath purple bruises and cuts that sparked something in her memory.

“Dirty Fingers?” She blinked a few times but the dead man did not respond to the calling of his name.

“You knew him?”

“I…I met him earlier this evening.” She hadn’t expected to see him again, not this soon anyway. What happened? How did he get this far away?

“It seems he’s been struck by lightning.”  

“Was that before or after he’d been hit over the head?” She gestured to the glass scattered across the floor. What could have occurred here? There weren’t many signs of a struggle or fight but how could there have been? She was the one responsible for his battered body.

He screamed the first time she stabbed him; she remembered the tears that rolled from his eyes. But it hadn’t been enough.

There was a reason she sent Isabela away: such an unholy act that followed was not to be seen.

He begged for her to stop, to end his torment as early as his second finger breaking (or had it been his hand slicing ?) but she didn’t listen.

In fact, she smiled. And that seemed to be what frightened him most of all.

‘Enough of this,’ Filia told herself. There was no use dwelling.

She made her way toward the desk at the back of the room.

The candles were still lit on the table.

“Let’s see what we have,” Filia slid a heavy book into her arms, it’s binder worn by constant use “ ‘The Alchemist’s Encyclopedia, by Lord Cerastes of Marnas Pell.’ She read, squinting against the ever dimming candle light. “Well, that’s a lengthy title.” She flipped through pages, careful not to let her armored gauntlets tear the diagrams, pictures or their lengthy explanations.

“This looks like it should be banned by the chantry,” She mused, running her finger over an illustration of, what seemed to be, a rough outline of the human body. “Seems like our ‘Illusive Mage’ has been studying.” Turning her gaze, Filia glanced around the flowers and leaves scattered across the table.

One, in particular, caught her attention though it was more of a grass than a houseplant. She picked it up at though to observe its contents.

“What do you have there?”

“It’s a Vetiver, I think, and judging by everything else on the table someone seems to be brewing something to help them sleep.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a talent for herbalism.” He sounded surprised, but also somewhat amused by the revelation and she paused, unsure of what to say.

“I don’t.” She decided to dismiss him, setting the plant down on the table so she could walk away. “Not really, anyway.” Thinking back, those days felt as though they’d come from a dream, or perhaps a different life.

Those were the dreams of a girl who deserved to be happy. A girl very much different than the woman she’d become; a disappointment to her father and a failure to her sister.

“We can tell Aveline about that guy and let the guardsmen handle it from there.” She directed, leading Anders out the room, shutting the door and tearing her gaze from the deceased.

She needed to focus, to steady herself for the mission and aim solely for the goal at hand.

She curled her fingers tightly around the grip of blade sword as a reminder.

She had to tie up a loose end.

Because it didn’t matter what she did anymore—she’d lost—she’d never have the chance to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the final chapter!
> 
> To be continued!

**Author's Note:**

> To Be Continued!


End file.
